Monster Handling
by danger.angel
Summary: Angelina and Montague attempt to deal with the monsters that have presented themselves during seventh year, each in their own unique way.


**Monster-Handling**

On nights like these, Montague couldn't sleep. These were the nights when it was not so easy to clear his mind and forget the world with its loves, conflicts, and gross misunderstandings. These were the nights he was viscerally aware of the heavy suffocating air that had settled over Hogwarts. It had made its presence known when Umbridge had begun those detentions. Students would leave her office with bleeding hands and dazed expressions. None of them ever spoke about their experiences. The shame and fear were still evident days afterwards. There was also anger and realization, the coming of adulthood.

The Muggle-borns Montague knew sometimes talked about the metaphorical monster in the cupboard, all their fears come to life. When they were young, it was only their parents who could get rid of it. At that time, they'd had all faith in their parents and other adults. They thought them infallible, as supermen, having no idea that the ones they looked to for security could become the monster.

Here now was Umbridge, shaking the faith anyone had ever had in the Ministry. Most of the students were too afraid to believe the Dark Lord was alive. Previously, if they'd thought on the issue they would resolve themselves to the fact that the Ministry with its brave Aurors would defeat the great villain, creating a happy ending. Or maybe some hero, Potter maybe, would defeat him with the aid of the Ministry. They'd never think that way again. The Ministry had declared the hero insane and had brought an enforcer to Hogwarts to make sure those with "young and impressionable minds" agreed. The Ministry was not to be trusted, that much would be evident after this farce was over. When it was, there would be a generation who would not trust its government, who would not trust itself. The consequences would be unimaginable.

Since becoming a part of the Inquisitorial Squad, Montague had taken to roaming the halls well after patrol time. It helped with the restlessness. He exhausted himself by walking a few corridors and climbing a few stairs. When he returned to the Slytherin dormitory he always fell asleep immediately.

During his jaunts Montague had never once encountered anyone other than a few ghosts. How typical that it was a Gryffindor who broke the routine.

Johnson was leaning on the door of the first floor girl's lavatory. She was cloaked in darkness but he could tell it was her. There was no other girl in Hogwarts who resembled Johnson in silhouette. She was all long arms and legs, and then there were the long braids. Montague had spent many a Transfigurations class staring at them. Some days Johnson would charm some of them red or some other outrageous color. Once she'd charmed them blue, another time a faint gold, almost yellow; but never green.

She was humming a Celistina Warbeck song. The one about full moons and true loves, or something like that. The humming broke off when she put the remnants of a lit cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply. The end of the cigarette burned a brilliant red against the darkness as she inhaled and faded when she exhaled.

Funny, he'd never figured Johnson for the smoking type. She seemed too well-adjusted. Even though she was a Gryffindor and prone to fits of rebelliousness, he knew deep at heart she was a good girl. One of the girls who'd leave school and settle down with a nice husband and have two or three children. When she died, she'd regret nothing because her life would be perfect, her decisions wise and fair. There was no darkness in her. She repulsed him even as he was pulled to her like a moth to a flame.

Throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under her boots, Johnson moved out of the shadows and started in his direction. She stopped when she saw him. Her expression was contemplative yet distant.

"I suppose if I don't give you a good explanation for this you're going to report me to that cow," she said. Her expression deepened. "I guess I shouldn't have said that."

Montague peered at her. Johnson spoke her mind when she thought it necessary, which was a lot of the time, but she was always careful with her words. She was acting out of sorts.

The smell of the surrounding air crept up on him. It was pungent, unmistakeable. The Muggle-borns called it Magic Mushroom. It was a joke between them. Montague barely got the reference point. He'd caught a few students smoking it but had never reported them to Umbridge. He'd seen what she did to students for mouthing off to her. He didn't even want think about the kind of punishment she'd come up with for drug use. Montague was ambitious, but never cruel.

"You could get into a lot of trouble, Johnson," he said.

"For what? I'm just walking the halls. I'm Head Girl. I have a right to do that." Her indignation faded, turning to confusion. "At least I think I have a right to do that," she murmured. Just as quickly as she'd become confused, Johnson began laughing.

"What's so funny?" Montague asked.

"I just got it. I just got why Fred always laughs when I say that I'm Head Girl. You get it, _Head_ Girl!" She made an obscene gesture with her hands.

"Yes. Funny," he said dryly as Johnson descended into a fit of giggles.

Abruptly, she stopped, becoming serious. "So, are you going to report me to Umbridge? Maybe she'll take me off the team. I'd bet you'd just love that."

"What I'd love is for Slytherin to beat Gryffindor with all its best players. Nothing to brag about if it's otherwise."

"You think I'm a good player," she said, smiling.

"You know you are."

She shrugged. "I'm thinking of trying out for a few teams, but…" she trailed off.

"But?"

"But it's fairly obvious that a big goddamned war is about to happen and I really doubt that anyone's going to want to go to a Quidditch game. Too dangerous having so many people in one place." Johnson leaned against the wall, resting her temple against the stone.

"There might not be a war," Montague said, troubled by the words as they came. "Things are uncertain at this point."

Johnson gave him an incredulous look. "Uncertain? Don't patronize me," she spat out bitterly. "You of all people should know that it's unavoidable. I see you. I know you're not as stupid as everyone thinks you are. I see you watching all of us, making the calculations. You know what's going to happen."

Montague shook his head. "I don't know anything." He'd thought he did. He'd thought he knew who Johnson was, but she was only who he'd constructed her to be out of stereotypes and assumptions. How many other things was he wrong about?

"You know something," Johnson said. "You know what's important."

"But…" He didn't _want_ to know.

Montague's features became hard as he stared at Johnson. Did the girl make a habit of this? Going around and shaking up people's perceptions, changing their worlds suddenly and irrevocably? Knowledge was one thing, but _realization_, it was something else. Something confusing, exhilarating and terrifying. He wanted nothing to do with it.

He wanted to hit her for this. He would during the next match.

"I think I'm coming down," Johnson said softly.

There were a lot of unknowns with Magic Mushroom. The only certain thing was that it was unpredictable. No two experiences with it were alike. Sometimes the effects lasted hours, sometimes minutes. It was the physical embodiment of happiness, peculiar and fleeting.

Montague turned from Johnson. He could no longer bear to look at her.

"Look, I'm going to go back to my room. Should I expect a special summons from Umbridge tomorrow?"

He gritted his teeth. It was tempting, but again, he wasn't cruel. He shook his head.

"Thank you."

Montague doubted he'd ever heard such words uttered from a Gryffindor to a Slytherin. At times, they could be civil to each other, but never sincere in this manner. He turned back towards her. She was as earnest as he didn't expect her to be. She'd done it again. Maybe it really was a habit.

Montague peered at Johnson trying to find some hint of subterfuge. He was disappointed when he found nothing.

Unsteadily, Johnson began to walk away. He caught her arm. "I'll walk you back to your room," he said. "It would be unbecoming for anyone to find the Head Girl passed out in a corridor."

Johnson smiled. "I suppose it would be."

The next day he was more than surprised when she came to Transfigurations, her braids pulled back from her face, a few of them charmed forest green. It wasn't Slytherin green; it was his green.

**End**.

**A/N: **The idea of Angelina being Head Girl comes from a Maniacalmuse.


End file.
